Todd sighed and leaned into the door. Meanwhile, George showed his gratitude at being up front the best way he knew how: by licking my face and neck while I lowered the jump seat and laid the sleeping bag on top of it. With George’s invaluable help I eventually managed to make a serviceable spot. Covered in dog slobber, we set off. As we drove, it became apparent he couldn’t really sit on it (because the motion of the truck would throw him off balance), nor could he comfortably lie on it (because it was too small), so he ended up positioning himself in a spread eagle, half on top of me in the passenger seat and half on the jump seat. George was delighted and quite comfortable. Todd was not.
That setup lasted about forty-five minutes. It ended when I finally realized that my cherished friendship with Todd would be over forever if I didn’t do something.
“Okay, pull off,” I said.
And that’s when I came to terms with the last available option. Leaving George in the passenger seat, I took my place on the cramped, hard jump seat, which even though it was much lower than the captain’s seats, was easier for me to sit on than it was for George. Sandwiched between my giant dog and my equally giant friend, I looked like a small, helpless child. I felt ridiculous, which wasn’t helped by Todd turning to look down at me every few minutes, grinning and saying things like “How’s it going down there?” Meantime, George sat comfortably on the passenger seat. I had cracked the window a bit, and he stuck his head out, face, cheeks and ears blowing in the breeze; he was loving it.
We rode like that all the way down the western slope of the Rockies, through Utah and into Nevada. Todd did all the driving, all the way to California, in that same ridiculous configuration: George and Todd perched high on their thrones, surveying the world beyond the windshield as if they claimed dominion over it—and me with my head just barely visible over the dashboard. I tried to look on the bright side: at least no one in my new neighborhood would see me.
FOURTEEN
The sudden increase in traffic was our warm welcome to Los Angeles, California. I learned quickly that the legendary chaos of L.A. traffic was not exaggerated. We exited the congested freeway and drove toward my new home in Hermosa Beach. As we approached, we could see the palm trees that lined Pier Avenue, and pretty girls floating by on skateboards, while surfers in wet suits made their way to the beach. We must have seemed an odd sight, jammed together in the cab, clunking down the street in our beat-up truck, Todd driving, George with his big head lolling out the window and drool blowing off his tongue—and me in between, barely peering over the dash.
Todd looked over at George. “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” he said. George was busy staring at pedestrians who had stopped and were pointing and staring at us. This was a much different neighborhood from the one we’d left in Toronto just a few days before. There were quaint surf shops and restaurants teeming with tanned, happy people. Beyond the street was the beautiful beach, full of surfers and volleyball players and families relaxing and soaking up the sun. The beach looked even nicer than the photos of it I’d seen online. “What do you think, George?” I asked. He turned to me for a moment, sending a thread of sticky drool onto my shirt. “Thanks, buddy.”
We arrived at a complex of town houses where my new apartment was located, just two blocks away from the beach. We parked the truck out front and George pawed at the front seat, eager to get out. “Hold your horses there, big guy,” I said, putting him on the leash and guiding him down from his passenger-side throne. He burst forth and promptly peed on the first palm tree he found. Todd and I stretched our legs a bit and then climbed the stairs up to my unit, with George bounding up the stairs behind us.
I opened the front door to a huge loft space. The bedroom was on the second floor, overlooking a living room with soaring twenty-foot ceilings. A double set of French doors led to a small balcony. “Wow, this is pretty nice,” Todd said as we walked out and took in the courtyard below, with a swimming pool surrounded by palm trees.
“What do you think, George?” I asked. He was wagging his tail and eyeing the pool as though he wanted to jump right in.
Todd decided to start unloading the truck while I took George for a walk in his new neighborhood. “I need to stretch his legs,” I said. “We’ll be back shortly.”
“No problem. Do what you gotta do.”
George bounced up and down with excitement when I clipped on his leash and told him we were going for a walk. We headed down to the street and had only gone about fifteen feet, when the ocean breeze hit us. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. No matter where I am on earth or what ocean I’m beside, that smell does the same thing to me: it takes me back to my grandfather’s cottage as a kid. I looked down at George, who was standing stock-still beside me. His head pointed skyward and his big nose was twitching, breathing the fresh ocean air.
“Come on, George. Let’s go see the beach.”
As we walked a block down the hill, the big Pacific Ocean waves came into view. Sunbathers, surfers and lifeguard stands dotted the beach. We crossed Hermosa Avenue onto the paved path known as the Strand. I loved the Strand right away. It felt like a Beach Boys song coming to life. As far as the eye could see, animated people, most wearing surf shorts, bathing suits or lululemon gear, walked, ran, skateboarded or cycled. “See all the people, George?” I said, but when I faced him, George was oblivious. The only thing he was looking at was the water, which was only sixty yards of pure white sand away.
“All right. Let’s go check it out, big guy.”
In a split second an incredible transformation took place. Here was a dog, a Landseer Newfoundland—for generations bred to be the most powerful, web-footed, fearless, water-savvy dog on earth—seeing and smelling the ocean for the very first time. As he gazed at the water, his genetic hardwiring, unspoken and instinctive, reached George’s brain. So what did he do?
He bolted.
He pulled the leash out of my hand and left me standing on the Strand, helplessly watching. He ran faster than I have ever seen any dog run. He ran past the sunbathing teenagers. He ran past college students playing beach volleyball. He ran past little kids with plastic buckets and shovels building sand castles. He ran with the singular purpose of making it to the water.
“George!” I called, but I knew it was pointless. My one hope was that when he got to the shoreline and saw up close the huge waves with their walls of water crashing toward him, he would get scared and stop. After all, he’d never seen an ocean. I walked at a leisurely pace to catch up to him. Before I was even close, he reached the shore … and kept going, throwing himself headlong into the oncoming surf.
“Oh no,” I muttered. Then I yelled, “George!” He ignored me completely, catapulting himself through the surf and swimming out to sea, his attention fixed on something far out in the water. I shielded my eyes against the sun and spotted a handful of surfers past the break. They were about thirty-five yards from shore, lying on their boards and waiting for the next set of big waves to roll in. George was beelining for the closest one.
“No, George! Stop! Come back!” He had swum out about fifteen yards or so, but he was still in the wash that rushes to shore after a wave breaks. He hadn’t yet been hit by the full force of a big wave. The next thing I saw was a large wave curl and break in front of him, kicking up a solid four-foot wall of white water. Surely when that wall of water hit him he would go under and get rolled, and that would be enough to send him swimming back to shore.
But that’s not what happened. When the white water surged and hit him, sure enough he completely disappeared underneath the froth. I felt a jolt of panic and picked up my pace. By the time I reached the water’s edge, his head had popped back up. He didn’t look at all panicked. He refocused on the surfers beyond the break and kept swimming out to them with determination. “George! This way!” I cried, waving my arms and beckoning him back to shore. He looked like a tugboat churning through rough water. By this point he had cleared the white water and was out deep
er, where another big, rolling wave was about to break on him. I felt fear in the pit of my stomach. Even if I dived in and swam my hardest, there was no way I’d make it to him in time.
I looked out beyond George’s bobbing head, where the surfers were now taking notice of the massive dog swimming toward them. A few had lifted themselves onto their boards to get a better view. “It’s a dog, a biggie!” Now they were all up on their boards, pointing and laughing and directing all attention to George. “What’s he doing?” one of them shouted. Another one said, “He’s coming this way!”
The wave rolled in. George paddled up its face—all seven feet of it—somehow keeping his head high above the surface. He hung on the crest for a brief, majestic moment before the wave rolled over him, pushing him down, and submerging him. This was it: George was in trouble. He had been hit by a huge wave and he was going to drown before my very eyes. And there was nothing I could do to stop it.
A few seconds later, to my great relief, his head popped to the surface as though it was a cork. He was okay! In fact, he appeared even more intent on swimming farther out instead of heading to shore. His paws cycled rapidly, and his instinct carried him out over the next crest, right to the group of surfers. By this point they’d all given up on catching a wave themselves and were focused solely on George. George zeroed in on the nearest one—a blond, lanky boy on an orange-and-white surfboard. George swam in a direct line to him. When it became clear which surfer he was headed for, the target started yelling at me, “Du-u-de! Get your dog!”
How in the world was I going to do that? I didn’t have time to think. Instead I took off my T-shirt, fished my wallet out of my shorts and piled both, along with George’s leash, on top of my flip-flops in the sand. I ran into the water and waded out, shouting George’s name, hoping he would hear me and turn around. After a few more seconds George made it to the board, which the blond surfer was lying on like a seal, belly down. George grabbed the surfer’s arm in his mouth. “Hey!” the kid yelled. “Let go!” At first I thought George might be biting him. But the next thing I saw was that George had changed directions, and as he began pulling the kid on the board toward shore, the kid started laughing and pushing George away. The big Newf was not easily deterred, and his head kept popping back up to the surface, no matter how many times the kid pushed him away.
I called for George again—to no avail. Then I dived under a big wave and emerged safely on the other side, much closer to him now. At this point George had stopped trying to drag the surfer to shore and instead had thrown his front paws on the surfer’s board and was trying to climb on. “Du-u-de!” the surfer said to George. “Get your own board!” All the other surfers were howling with laughter, but the loudest laugh of all came from the kid being attacked by the great white-and-black fur shark beside him. “Your dog’s a board hog!” the kid yelled my way. He gave George yet another push back into the water. “He’s killing my joy here, du-u-de!”
“Sorry, I’m getting him!” I shouted as I swam. Finally George had heard me and he turned toward my voice. Abandoning the surfers, he started swimming straight for me, his eyes wide with excitement.
“Good boy, George. Come this way!”
Over the years I have watched a few dogs swim at the beach or in lakes, chasing balls and sticks, but this was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Even at a distance I could tell that George didn’t swim using the standard “doggie paddle.” Instead he thrust one paw at a time out in front of him and then pulled it to the side of his body and down, catapulting himself forward in powerful bursts. It was similar to a breast stroke used by competitive swimmers. He kept his head up high in the water and moved toward me with the steady determination of a rescue boat.
California waves are long and smooth, not like the shorter, sporadic Atlantic-coast waves I’d grown up with. “George, watch out!” I yelled, as a new, big, Pacific wave approached him. He was right in the trough now and luckily had good timing, as it swelled and carried him along. He actually bodysurfed for a few yards before he slipped behind the crest and the wave broke in front of him. He swam through the white water, his ears up and his eyes wide, and the next thing I knew he was right beside me.
“George!” I said, breathless. “What are you doing?” This close I could see what I’d failed to see earlier: there was no panic in his eyes, and George was having the time of his life. He took my arm in his mouth, the same thing he’d tried to do with the surfer. He wasn’t holding hard enough to break the skin—it was more a steady grip than a bite—but his teeth held firm. I let him lead me a ways to shore, but when the water was back down to my mid thigh and his paws hit the bottom, he wouldn’t stop pulling. And now he was pulling with enough force that it started to hurt. “George, no!” I said, trying to push him away. He didn’t listen.
When we finally made it to shore, he let go of me, shook off a geyser of spray and then stood looking at me, wagging his tail furiously. As I bent over to catch my breath, he licked my face as hard as he could. He was obviously proud of pulling me out of the water. I held his collar with my good arm—the one not covered in pink teeth marks—and led him over to where I’d piled my things. He didn’t walk over—he pranced, lifting his front paws high the way show horses do. He was as happy and excited and alive as I’d ever seen him. I let myself fall onto the sand, still holding tight to his collar.
“That was crazy! You had me worried. I didn’t know you could swim like that.” He unleashed a flurry of kisses on my head.
“George,” I said. “You’re supposed to come when I call. And you can’t grab people on surfboards.” I was both concerned and upset that he had run away from me like that, but at the same time, I’d just witnessed this dog’s first-ever swim, and clearly he’d just discovered the thing he’d been born and bred to do. It was amazing.
George was prancing again, alternating between his two front paws in what can only be described as a dance of joy. My reprimand was falling on deaf, wet ears.
I got him back on the leash and kept him close as I slipped my shirt over my head. A woman walking briskly toward us called out, “Excuse me! You! Excuse me!”
She was in her late thirties, wearing giant black sunglasses and a thin purple wrap over her bathing suit. “You’re not supposed to have dogs on the beach!” she said, raising her voice.
On Nova Scotia beaches dogs could come and go as they pleased. “I’m sorry—I had no idea,” I said.
“Your dog is dangerous. I saw him biting you!” She looked at George, who now sat obediently by my side and had lowered his head and turned the other way when he heard her raised voice. She gestured to a post on which a massive sign outlined the bylaw banning dogs from the beach and warning of a fine. Only then did I notice these signs were posted on every fourth or fifth pole all the way down the beach.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “He wasn’t biting me. He’s a water-rescue dog, and he was just trying to rescue the surfers … We’re not from here. I didn’t see the sign. I’m sorry.”
“You missed that?” she said, pointing at the sign right beside us.
“I guess so, yeah.”
“What if that thing had latched on to—”
I interrupted her before she could finish. “Sorry. Really. You’ve made your point. We’re leaving now.” I picked up my flip-flops and wallet and dragged a very reluctant George away from the water.
As we were going, the surfers called out, “See ya later, George!”
We walked back to the apartment, both of us dripping wet and covered in sand. Todd was waiting by the truck as we approached.
“What the hell happened to you two?” he asked.
“Don’t ask. It’s a long story.”
FIFTEEN
Todd had to be back home for a work commitment, so the next day George and I drove him to the airport in the moving truck for his flight to Toronto.
“That was a hell of a road trip,” Todd said as we stepped out of the truck onto the curb of Terminal 2 at LA
X. I had George’s leash in my hand. Todd looked down at George and reached out to rub his head. “I never thought I would say this, but you’re a good boy, George. You watch out for my friend, okay?”
“I will,” I said.
“Not you. I was talking to George.”
George leaned into Todd’s hand and wagged his tail. Todd then turned to me and gave me a big hug, and amid the smell of jet fuel and the roar of airplanes landing and taking off, he said, “You’re a great friend. I love you, man. I’m going to miss you.” Then he slapped me on the back a couple of times, picked up his bag and walked into the terminal.
I didn’t know what to say. Guys don’t say things like that to each other. I’ve never said anything like that to any of my friends, but after nearly twenty-five years of friendship, shared dreams and a few failures, Todd felt compelled to utter what I couldn’t. It was so good to hear his words.
After he entered the terminal, I bent down to hug George and felt a few tears running down my face. I knew I would miss my friend very much. George licked my cheek and I nuzzled his shoulder. A few seconds later I felt a tap on my back and pivoted to find one of L.A.’s finest peering down at me.
“Sir, get the truck and dog out of the way—you’re blocking traffic.”
“Oh. Sorry. Sure.”
George and I hopped into the truck and took off. The drive back to Hermosa Beach was difficult and I found myself wiping more tears off my face. I felt lost, both literally and figuratively. George sat in the passenger seat, and instead of looking out the window the way he usually did, he spent most of his time staring at me. I didn’t know where I was or where I was supposed to be going. I didn’t know where the grocery stores were—or even what they were called—and I didn’t have a single friend in the city who could show me around.
“It’s just you and me,” I said to George once we got home. I unpacked a few boxes and halfheartedly tried to settle in. George seemed perfectly content with things and sprawled comfortably on the floor, but I felt strange being in this new apartment and not in my normal house. This didn’t really change much in the weeks and months that followed. In fact, it only got worse.
Free Days with George Page 13
